Playing for Keeps
by KaLeRei
Summary: They lived for these little games - the rarely-meant insults, the petty arguments, the back-and-forth banter and trying to prove that one of them was better than the other... it was their lifeline, and it kept their sanity intact. In a mafia world where emotions were considered a weakness, it seemed to them that they were the only things keeping them human. [TYL!5986] [ONESHOT]


::Another TYL-fic. I'm really finding this setting a lot more fascinating to write about lately… also trying out TYL with less bitter-sweetness… or at least, a little more sweetness and a little less bitter.

::I don't own KHR.

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><p>"<em>One can say this in general of men: they are ungrateful, disloyal, insincere and deceitful, timid of danger and avid of profit…. love is a bond of obligation which these miserable creatures break whenever it suits them to do so; but fear holds them fast by a dread of punishment that never passes."<em>

The words from the page echo in his thoughts, making him realize for a moment, just how much he agreed with the views of the 16th century Italian, how he had experienced first-hand the truth in these words, and just how effective fear truly was to assure loyalty – he had been in the mafia nearly all his life, after all.

Perhaps that was why he had wanted to see for himself more than ten years ago, if the rumors about the candidate for Decimo were true – that he was a mere boy, raised in Japan, knowing nothing of his mafia heritage, dead-last in class without any redeeming talents or skills whatsoever. The external-branch chairman's son was a stark difference to himself, Hayato had thought on his first flight to Japan. He, who had been raised in the mafia all his life, accustomed to seeing weapons carried around by grave men in black suits, to hidden passages and escape routes whenever the manor he grew up in came under attack, of honing skills aimed for killing at an age when most children had not even realized what life truly was and what death truly meant…

…and upon his first meeting, he had found all the rumors to be true – the boy was even called "No-good-Tsuna" by most of his peers, and he lacked self-confidence, decisiveness, and everything he had come to expect from the upper echelons of the mafia. He almost hated the way the boy was so blessed to be born into such a lofty position without even the mere semblance anything to prove his worth aside from the sheer luck that he was born to his father.

"You will become his _consigliere_, his right-hand-man, should you deem him worthy." the Nono had said to him, handing him a manila envelope with details and photos.

His eyes widen for a second from the surprise – him, second-in-command to the future Vongola? Him who had been an outcast, without a home, without a family, until the Nono had decided to take him in? "It will be my honor, sir." He replied curtly, trying to tone down his immense gratitude for the old man with the kind smile.

He had decided to stay in Japan because of this gratitude to the Ninth, because of his sense of duty to the old man who had given him a _famiglia_, a place to call home – somewhere he could belong. But that was more than ten years ago, before he had seen the true inner strength, the unfailing kindness, the infallible way he could inspire trust and loyalty despite not having any of the traits Machiavelli had prescribed to leaders – perhaps that, most of all, was what had drawn him to the current Decimo – the fact that he was so different from anyone he had ever met in the mafia.

His musings were interrupted by an opening door and the sound of a familiar laughter. "Yes, thank you, Yamamoto-san! I'll keep that in mind next time." She calls out before walking in the kitchen.

"Oh, Gokudera-san, I didn't notice you were here." She says, their eyes meeting only for the slightest second, before she turns away and begins to prepare herself a cup of coffee.

"Clearly." He says, matter-of-factly. He sees the smile fade from her face, and there it was again, that tense silence, like the air in the room suddenly rose in density and they were teetering on the edge of a knife – oblivion on one side, and something he couldn't – or perhaps chose not to – understand on the other.

"If you wanted to be alone, the kitchen really isn't the best place to be." She replies, matching his tone. She glares at the cigarette on his fingers and wrinkles her nose at the smell of tobacco. How many times had she told him that if he couldn't drop the awful habit, he could at least have the decency to not smoke indoors – or in rooms aside from his own private quarters?

She sighs, knowing that battle had already been lost years ago, with him declaring defiantly that he could smoke anywhere he wanted. She could leave now, the cup of coffee in her hands emanating wisps of smoke mirroring the ones from the cigarette between his fingers – but that would mean losing an argument to the right-hand-man while she currently had the upper hand… and that, she wouldn't miss for nearly anything in the world.

"And where did you get the idea that I was looking for solitude?" he asks, a small smirk making its way to his features. _'So here we are again,'_ he thinks to himself _'familiar territory.'_

These little arguments they had already come to expect from one another came less and less as the years went by – not because they were learning to get along, no it wasn't that, but because their duties and their lives simply put them in different places. Others would say it was just their way of greeting each other. They regarded it as something of a tradition – a competition even.

Something to remind themselves of the old days.

"You were reading." She observes the book in his other hand. "Machiavelli?"

He nods in response. "And you? Another long night?"

She takes a sip off her cup and relishes the way it warms her hands. "When is it ever not?"

"So your meeting with the Varia didn't go according to plan." He surmises from the tired expression on her face.

She sighs. "After all these years, I can't believe they still can't take me seriously. If Yamamoto-san wasn't there to talk some sense into Squalo-san we would never get anywhere. Sometimes I wonder if they're really even part of the Famiglia, with the way they act and address Tsuna-san."

"They're pains in the ass, but they're reliable when it really comes down to it." Gokudera says, putting the book down – perhaps he had read the atmosphere wrong, perhaps this wasn't the time for an argument. She seems more tired than usual.

"Yes, I know." She sighs. "It's just the condescending way they act is getting really old – I know I'm only just a face and a voice for the Vongola, just a negotiator…"

"A battle is won before it is even fought." Gokudera quotes, his tone softening. "The Tenth would rather use diplomacy than force, and in that you are of far more use to him than us guardians."

"You're quoting from Sun Tzu now, and I'm not sure if it fits the situation." Haru chuckles a little. "But this is a surprise, _Hayato-kun_. Are you trying to cheer poor little Haru-chan up?" She inches closer to him and looks up at him with the cutest expression she could come up with, twirling his tie between her delicate fingers.

He backs away a little and stiffens up, but otherwise keeps an unreadable expression. They stay mere inches away from each other, looking into each other's eyes, the tension in the air almost palpable – the moment comes where it feels like the world is challenging either of them to make a decision, but neither choose to give it an answer… the decisive moment passes without either of them making a move, and after a few more seconds, Haru smiles, and returns to her coffee cup, chuckling a little. "So the _little Haru-chan_ routine doesn't work anymore. I should really take note of that."

"What do you mean, doesn't work _anymore_? It never worked." He says almost smugly, straightening his tie.

Haru laughed. "Cute and fragile isn't your type then, Gokudera-san?"

"Nor does it suit you anymore, woman." He replies.

She smiles at him playfully. "Ah, now it's my turn to ask: what do you mean by _anymore,_ Gokudera-san?" She puts emphasis on the word and takes another sip of her coffee. "Do you mean it used to suit Haru?"

He scoffs. "You? Vulnerable and dainty? Even Shamal wouldn't fall for that."

She smiles at him. "I'm taking that as a compliment."

"Take it however you want." He says, turning to leave, though Haru does not fail to see the smirk on his lips. "I've got to go."

"It is far safer to be feared than to be loved." She mutters Machiavelli's words under her breath as he leaves. And the words manage to cut through him just before he closes the door, understanding that she had not said them _to_ him, but was speaking _of _him.

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><p>As the last of her coffee escapes down her throat, Haru fails to suppress a chuckle as she remembers Gokudera's stern, smug expression as he straightened his tie. "Always the serious one." She mutters under her breath as she opens another file and begins another long night of typing out reports and sorting out the boring, pen-and-paper requirements of running a Famiglia.<p>

Hours pass, and he enters her office almost soundlessly, with a tray of cake and two cups of tea – just enough caffeine to keep her going, not enough to keep her awake until morning. He is almost ready to hear the chuckle and see the disbelief in her eyes when she sees him walk in, and hear her declare triumphantly that 'the little-Haru-chan routine' had, in fact, worked on him.

None of those happened, however, because he had found her sound asleep, with her head on her arms and her work sprawled all over her desk. He smiles softly at her calm expression – vulnerable and dainty indeed, as if all those sleepless nights and all she had been through had never touched her. But clueless, stupid and susceptible were no longer words he could use to describe her, it hasn't been that way in a long, long time.

He wonders if he truly hoped she was as she used to be, despite how frustrating it was, having to protect an ignorant civilian, if only because that would mean she would never have had to see the things she had seen, to go through ten years of plots, and schemes, and battles, and scars and death… of seeing the innocent light fade from her eyes and get replaced by somber seriousness, of oblivious smiles substituted with an expression of tiredness – of having had enough of it all but having no choice in the matter.

It's not just her, he tells himself, as he sets down the tray soundlessly, careful not to break this one of the few moments of peace between them. There was less innocence in all of them – less annoying laughs from Yamamoto, less speeches of motivation from Sasagawa, less hope, even, from the Tenth himself… even Lambo, young as he was compared to the rest of them, was showing signs of it.

He leaves the tray but takes his cup and turns to leave, but is interrupted by Haru's stirring awake. "It might have worked a little too well…" she smiles and he turns to face her "…you even brought cake."

"Well, they say misery loves company." He takes a seat in front of her desk.

She arranges her papers in a neat stack and moves them to the side, taking the cake and her tea. "Which one of those two am I, I wonder." She eats a piece of the cake, and Gokudera swears her eyes light up by just a little bit. "I'd be fine as misery if you keep this up, Gokudera_-kun_."

"It's easy considering I've watched you devour those for ten years. God knows all the bakers in Italia would be able to live happily even with just you as a customer." He almost laughs.

Haru smiles playfully and points her fork at him. "Yes, but this particular one, Gokudera-kun, I had no idea you knew me so well. But you did say you've _watched_ me all these years."

He straightens his tie and clears his throat. "I watch everyone. It is my job after all, to know what everyone's up to."

She laughs freely, and he smiles as if that was all he had been waiting for. "Gokudera-kun, you're not even trying."

He shoots her a confused expression. She chuckles again, "Your insults are usually a lot more effective than they are tonight – how are you planning on winning this game if you're showering me with half-compliments and cake? You haven't even succeeded in making me feel the least bit offended."

He smirks, places his tea on her desk and leans over to her, looks into her eyes, and her brows furrow in confusion for a moment. He takes her wrist in his hand. "Which game do you think we're playing?" he mutters – almost breathlessly, his green, half-lidded eyes almost enrapturing her in place.

She blinks, and once she opens her eyes again she is sure she wasn't just imagining the Storm Guardian's face a mere inch from her own – she could almost feel the breath from his lips and smell the tea mingling with tobacco.

She keeps her gaze steady this time, though her brows are still furrowed because though this has happened a few times before, where their petty little arguments and the little games where they try to prove that one is better than the other, slowly turn into _this_; with their faces inches from each other, both searching for answers in each other's eyes, an answer they have yet to find… something about tonight felt less like their usual game. It was more serious – more deliberate… more real.

"You're going to have to try a lot harder if this is what you want to play, _Hayato-kun._" she whispers into his ear, her words seemingly honey-coated with promises. She dares to run her fingers delicately through his silver hair for the first time – and wonders for a second just how long the strands have fascinated her, and she smirks once she sees his eyes widen just enough with surprise.

Moments pass by in silence and their eyes remain locked in each other's gaze.

It was her turn to be surprised once again, however, when he laughs – not the controlled, half-amused chuckle of the Vongola Decimo's right-hand-man she was used to, but pure, unrestrained, almost childlike laughter. Something she has not heard from him, in a very long time. Far too long a time, she told herself. It sounded almost foreign to her ears.

She begins to laugh as well, not really knowing why, other than the silver-haired man's laughter was so rare and seemed to be impossibly infectious, but a part of her also wondering just what it was he found so funny.

They laugh, and laugh, without either of them really knowing why – perhaps their bodies just needed it, after years of having gone through life with so little to laugh about. Once it dies down and they are both calm and collected again, Haru asks a question, or at least tries to.

"So, Gokudera-san, why -?" the words suddenly escape her and she suddenly becomes unsure how to proceed. The Storm Guardian was an enigmatic man, and despite knowing him for more than ten years now, she still couldn't be sure just what he was thinking. And what was it she really meant to ask him?

'_Why did you come here tonight? Why did you laugh? Why do we play all these games? Why do I feel like you've been letting me win? Why do I still feel like I'm losing? Who am I to you?'_

She isn't able to finish her question before he smiles at her softly – almost sadly, maybe even longingly – Haru notes when she remembers, and the memory of this night makes its way to the surface of her thoughts. "But, _Haru_, we're still playing." He takes his empty teacup and turns to leave. But, he looks back at her for a moment and she thinks that she could see it all in his eyes.

She hated it when his eyes looked at her that way: _'I'm sorry.' _They seemed to say. Sorry for what? She wonders – that he never gives her a straightforward answer? That he veils everything in these little games? That he wished he could tell her what she already knew she wanted to hear from him, but couldn't? That he was afraid of caring about her as much as he did? That if it really came down to it, he could never choose her above his duty or the Tenth?

That he feels partly responsible for why she was stuck in this world of lies, of crime, of intrigue, of murder, and of blood?

Her gaze becomes stern and colder – as if to defiantly tell him that all this was her choice and he had no right to feel sorry for her because all these were things she consciously brought upon herself.

"I couldn't sleep with you winning." He smiles at her quizzical expression. "When we met in the kitchen. You were right." He's at the door and just before he leaves he mutters "Sometimes you make being wrong feel so much better than being right." and closes the door behind him.

Haru sighs in exasperation after he leaves, but smiles all the same.

She knows she lived off of their little games like her life depended on them – god knows her sanity did. It was one of the few things that reminded her she was human… that she was alive.

That despite it all, something could still make her smile, and laugh, and make her heart race… that something could still frustrate her to no end, that despite the moments being fleetingly short, she both hated and loved that he could make her feel like a lovesick teenager again.

She wonders, sometimes, if he depended on these games too.

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><p>::Cheese galore… but also, something a little more vulnerable… something a little more important, I think. This was really more of a vignette experiment type thing.<p>

::Thanks for reading!


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